Turning A Blind Eye
by JuniperGentle
Summary: Quite how Italy had persuaded him that another of those ridiculous fancy-dress parties would be a good idea Germany would never know. However, he was now in the middle of it, faced with the usual crowd in the usual costumes, including a certain ex-pirate with one eye-patch and two working eyes... Slight crack.


_Contains a cup of crack, a hint of history with a flavour of fancy-dress, three tablespoons of trouble, an infusion of inquisitiveness, an excess of accent (absolutely no insult intended) and a pinch of pirate!England. Warning - this recipe does not make good scones. _

**Turning A Blind Eye**

Germany had been expecting this ever since he got the beautifully handwritten RSVP note back, but there was still a moment of shock when he opened the door of his (well, Italy's) house to find an ancient flintlock pistol pointed right between his eyes and the blade of an equally ancient but still lethally-sharp cutlass pressed against his throat.

"Hello, Britain," he sighed, when he found his voice again. Britain's single visible eye flared in the light pouring out of the house, and Germany was half-expecting him to say something ridiculous like "Avast me heartily", whatever that meant, when a passing cowboy spotted who was at the door and leapt to give the pirate a customarily enthusiastic greeting.

Now that the pistol was no longer pointed straight at him, Germany's mind had slipped out of danger mode, and could resume normal analysis of the situation. Britain was indeed in full pirate regalia, including a rather magnificent hat that boasted a decidedly battered ostrich feather that was easily three times larger than the three green ones bracketing it. It was set at an angle that the laws of gravity should have made impossible, almost daring Germany to nudge it and see if it fell off (though he had a good idea that the cutlass would revert to his throat if he attempted that). From the parts of the coat that weren't blocked by America's cowboy outfit, he could see that it was a slightly faded red, with black cuffs that must have once been horribly tattered but had been carefully, lovingly repaired until the only damage was a strange rippling in the colour. It really did look as if it had been worn at sea for years and years – one of Germany's favourite hats had suffered the same fate of salt immersion not long ago due to a rather ill-advised trip to the beach on an extremely windy day. Italy had enjoyed it, though, which was the main thing really. At least until sand got in the _gelato._

But that was beside the point now. Captain England was back, and from the expression on his face he wasn't going to put up with America's boundless enthusiasm much longer. His sole visible eye was glinting fiercely, and Germany suddenly realised that he was thankful that the pistol was so old, because at least that meant that it probably couldn't be fired very easily – though he was certain that given much more provocation Britain would find a way.

"Vhy don't you come in?" he suggested, and thankfully America realised that this required him letting go of Britain, who glared even more ferociously than usual. Clearly it was going to be a _very_ long and stressful night, and Germany would probably have to physically restrain the island nation in order to prevent him from strangling anyone with that eyepatch.

Germany frowned. He must remember to ask Britain about that...

.

The party died down towards six the following morning, at approximately the same time as all of the nations present suddenly realised that it was not, in fact, a Saturday, but a Monday, and therefore most of them had work to get to. It was also about then that most of them realised why there had been rather more non-alcoholic drinks than usual, and also why Germany had refused to let Prussia in (this had caused an extremely noisy fight that had ended only when France and Spain grabbed Prussia under the arms and dragged him off to some other nightclub in the nearby town).

And so now it was about eight in the morning, and Italy's house was once again nearly empty. In fact, there were only four people in it – Germany himself, a Romano who was even more irritable than usual and therefore had been confined to the kitchen, a Veneziano who was gradually falling asleep and trying very hard not to, and a pirate who was sitting on the sofa drinking tea (exactly where he had managed to find such a substance in the famously coffee-loving Italian house Germany decided he did not want to know).

When Germany finally decided that he couldn't be bothered to clear up just yet and sat down on the sofa opposite, Italy immediately wrapped himself around Germany's shoulders, apparently figuring that a German was the cosiest place in the house to sleep. This was quite normal for him, so Germany thought nothing of it, except wondering what _Britain_ was going to think of it.

As it happened, Britain offered him a glance and a nod, but that was the extent of his recognition that there was anyone else in the room. It seemed as if talking to other people wasn't exactly his cup of tea, quite literally.

For a long time, the silence held in the room, making Germany feel more and more uncomfortable. It was strange to hear the whole house being almost silent except for Romano's continued clattering about in the kitchen. Finally, he looked up, and somehow managed to catch Britain's eye as the other put his teacup down. Something had to be said. "Do you not have vork today, Britain?"

"No," the other answered. "It's a Bank Holiday at my place, so I don't have to do anything. I love May."

"Bank holiday?"

"It's just what we call the public holidays – because the banks are closed, the businesses that use the banks have to shut too. There's only a few shops open, and so there's no work for me either. But I've got some old paperwork to catch up on so I'll go as soon as I finish my tea."

Germany pondered this for a while, and then said "Could you explain von thing to me, Britain? It is not about the holidays of banks – different topic."

Britain looked surprised and rather pleased. "I can try, of course..."

"It is just that there is von thing I have never understood, " Germany said in as conversational a tone as he could manage with a sleepy Italian draped around his shoulders, "Vhy does your costume have an eye-patch vhen both of your eyes are fine?"

Britain rolled his shoulders, looking ever so slightly uncomfortable, which was unusual to say the least. "Well, that's what pirates are supposed to look like... I mean, what people think they looked like when I was... ahem, I- er..." He trailed off, not meeting the other's eyes.

"But you have said before that it vas authentic," Germany pointed out, still confused. "You said you used to vear it, and you vould not add something just to fit vith vhat people think is right vhen you _know_ vhat is right."

Britain was still looking at the ground. "Can't you just forget about it? It's not as if it's all that important."

But unfortunately for him, Germany's streak of curiosity ran deep – well, why else would he have pulled the lid off a wooden box claiming to be the Box of Tomatoes Fairy? - and this just made him even more interested. He fixed his eyes on Britain until the other nation gave him a quick sideways glance and then immediately shifted away when he realised his companion was watching.

"Fine," Britain muttered. "It's not really a very interesting story."

"Ve have a lot of time," Germany responded, and Britain rolled his eyes.

"You weren't around," he said at last. "Your brother might remember, and France and Spain certainly will." For a second, his teeth flashed in a strange, almost feral grin. "Those were good days." For a long moment, he seemed to lose himself in memories, until Germany cleared his throat and Britain started a bit. "Oh, sorry about that, old chap. But I'm telling the truth. The world seemed much bigger then, or at least it took longer to get around. I wasn't anywhere near as big as when you met me the first time, and Spain was the main power in Europe. He pretty much monopolised the trade routes, and I was as poor as a church mouse as the saying goes. So my kings and queens weren't too bothered when certain ships slipped back into harbour carrying rather more Spanish gold than they should have been."

He stopped and took a deep breath. "It wasn't long before it was all but legalised. Privateers, as they were called, were official pirates, if you like. I was one myself for a while, and Spain still hasn't forgiven me for some of the things that my sailors and I did to his ships. But back then, as long as some of the gold ended up in the country's coffers, my leaders turned a blind eye to their behaviour. It... it wasn't long before the whole country was doing the same." He stretched and Germany heard the bones click in his shoulders. "We're the manifestations of our nations, you know that just as well as I do."

"It is the very nature of our existence," Germany pointed out. "But vhat has that got to do vith anything?"

"Simple," Britain sighed. "If an entire country is turning a blind eye towards certain behaviours of its own people, is it really so surprising what happened?" At Germany's inquisitive look, he shook his head. "I went blind in the eye they were turning."

"So you actually needed that eye-patch?"

"Yes. And a jolly nuisance it was too, always getting soaked in seawater and making that eye sting awfully."

Germany couldn't help being fascinated. "Vhy did you not take it off?"

At this, Britain seemed almost to be fighting off a smile. "It was good for intimidating people too."

"Then vhy don't the pirates today vear them? It is strange."

But Britain was shaking his head. "For one thing, modern-day pirates aren't normally in battles that could take an eye out," he said. "And they're the reality of piracy. This" he gestured to his costume, "has been romanticised."

"Vhat do you mean?"

Britain gave him a strange look. "When I was sailing, it wasn't the piracy that was the crime," he began. "The truth is that pirates weren't especially romantic. We weren't even that bloodthirsty. When pirates were caught, they weren't killed because they had been stealing, or because they were operating outside the law. Most of the time, it was because they had killed someone else, so pirates were cautious not to kill at all and just intimidate people into giving up. Not at all like now. That's why the fights used to be more gruesome, and more of... of _my_ pirates would lose limbs rather than lives."

"Hence the eye-patch?"

"And the wooden legs and hooks, though not necessarily the parrot." Britain frowned. "I still have no idea where that came from."

"How things change," Germany mused, and Britain's eyes flashed with glee.

"I suppose you could say that those blasted modern pirates aren't a patch on the real thing," he said with a smirk.

Germany only just resisted the temptation to punch him. "So you are... not a pirate now?" That was a loaded question if ever there was one.

"No. I was only a pirate – a privateer, actually - whilst it was seen as the... the _right_ thing to do. I mean, it never really was, but whilst my bosses were secretly using it as a weapon against Spain I was fine. Once they changed their stance and started sending the Navy to round up the pirates, and the letters of marque were revoked, I had to come back to land. You know as well as any of us that a nation can't deny his boss unless there's something very, very wrong."

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence whilst Germany mentally swore at Britain for doing exactly what he _always_ did – bringing into the present things that Germany was quite happy leaving in the past, though not forgetting.

Realising that the atmosphere was straining, Britain jumped to his feet. "I-I should get going," he stammered quickly. "Lots of things to do, politicians to babysit, scones to cook..."

And he headed for the door, apparently berating himself silently.

"You got your sight back, though?" Germany called after him, and to his surprise Britain actually stopped. "I mean, you are not vearing the patch now, so..."

"Of course it came back," Britain said, not turning around, and there was something very strange in his voice. Germany stood up, gently depositing Italy back on the sofa, and walked up to him.

"Do... do you miss being a pirate?" He had no idea what had prompted him to ask, but it made Britain turn around so at least he had managed something.

"I don't know," Britain said at last, twirling his hat rather nervously on one finger. "I don't miss being cold, wet and hungry every day. I don't miss the hammocks and the weevils and the rope-burns, and I certainly don't miss the scurvy. But I do miss the freedom, and the... the _danger._ You can't imagine what it's like, sailing a thousand miles from land into the heart of a storm, when the canvas is ripping from the rigging and your ship is crying like a wounded beast, knowing that the only thing keeping you alive is your own strength and skill, and that of your crew-mates."

"Nations can't die," Germany began, but Britain shook his head.

"The Sea is a jealous mistress," he said, and his voice was strangely soft. "Once she has you, she doesn't let you go, be you man or woman or nation. And if all that protects you from her fury is a few planks of wood, however strong the English oak they came from, it's a thrill like no other to try to best her."

The silence held for a moment between them. Germany tried to imagine what Britain was talking about, but as all of his own ships had been metal rather than wooden (that had been his brother's domain) he simply couldn't manage it. Standing up to the full might of the Sea herself in a little wooden tub? The very thought made shivers run up his spine.

At last, Britain said, rather stiffly, "Thank you for inviting me, Germany," and turned to walk out.

"Vait a moment," said Germany suddenly, just as Britain was about to step out of the door, remembering something he had meant to ask the island nation a long time ago. "Vhat does "Avast me heartily?" mean? How do you avast someone? It sounds rather... indecent."

Britain threw back his head and actually laughed. "It's 'avast, me hearties,'" he explained between rather undignified sniggers. "'Avast' means stop, and 'me hearties' is... well, it's just a form of address. Like... oh, I don't know... like "chaps" or "lads" or something like that."

"So it just means "Stop doing that, you lot"? That's all?"

"Yes."

"How veird."

"Trust me, worse things have happened at sea."

Germany winced. "I do not vant to know."

"No, you don't," was Britain's far-too-cheery reply as he sauntered off down the garden path, hat once again at that impossible, almost jaunty, angle. "Thanks for the party, Germany!"

And then he was gone, coat, hat, feathers and all.

"Pirates," Germany muttered to himself, and went to see if there was any food left.

* * *

_Gelato – Italian ice-cream. Delicious. (Then again, German ice-cream is also __**very**__ nice, and made up the majority of one of the few German lessons I can recall from six years ago.)_

_Captain England – It's probably occurred to you all that this was the only place I called him England, not Britain. This is for a number of reasons. _

_First, my head!canon is that England/Britain calls himself England, but all those who deal with him on the world stage call him Britain EXCEPT for the Commonwealth and his brothers, who know him as England, due to the England/Scotland/Ireland/Wales combination that is the reality of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Therefore, as this is from Germany's point of view, he is called Britain throughout most of this. However, at the time in history when he was a pirate, he was just England, not Britain. _

_Second, Captain England sounds a lot less like Captain America than Captain Britain does (and yes, I have seen a Captain Britain comic book before). _

_Third, there was a real pirate captain called Captain England. Apart from the fact that he was Irish, his first name was Edward, and he was marooned by his men on Mauritius for being too humane, he fits the bill quite nicely._


End file.
